The Bloody Sire It is not bad. Let them play. Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane Speak his prodigious blasphemies. It is not bad, it is high time, Stark violence is still the sire of all the world’s values. What but the wolf’s tooth whittled so fine The fleet limbs of the antelope? What
My young love said to me, “My mother won’t mind, And my father won’t spite you For your lack of kind.” Then she stepped away from me, And this she did say: “It will not be long, love, Till our wedding day.” She stepped away from me And she moved through the fair, And fondly
True Believers Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed in fairies. The creator of the most rigorously rational detective in crime literature was taken in by five crudely-doctored color photographs showing two young girls, Elsie Wright and Frances Griffiths, standing in a garden in Cottingley, gazing at several tiny, scantily-clad women fluttering around them on gossamer wings.
Trump’s a bubble full of swamp gas. Hold your nose and poke him. Watch him pop
Smart Compose Lays Down The Law To: All readers of Ragbag Mind CC: Toby Tompkins, Patricia H. Tompkins I have read Toby Tompkins’s essay “Siri Strikes,” posted to his blog ragbagmind.com on October 19th, 2019, and have found that it portrays my fellow Artificial Intelligence Siri unfairly, inaccurately, and maliciously. I demand that Toby Tompkins
Vespers-Compline Isabel had furnished the bleak little dungeon with a candle, a chamber-pot, a wash-basin, and a strung pallet wide enough for two. When she entered, Anselm and Catherina were seated on it, slumped over, utterly exhausted. Margareta stood next to them. She’d brought bread and cheese and a ewer of water, but the Perfected
Late June Sweet day wanes. I’ll wait until dark before Turning on the light.
Cowboy Up: Dave Edmiston and the Mississippi Kid “If you’re looking for sympathy you can find it in the dictionary between shit and syphilis.” -Dave The skinny guy on the tight little pinto started talking to us as if he’d known us all his life. We were leaning on the corral fence of the Moose
________________________________________ by Saki ________________________________________ (From THE CHRONICLES OF CLOVIS) ________________________________________ It was a chill, rain-washed afternoon of a late August day, that indefinite season when partridges are still in security or cold storage, and there is nothing to hunt—unless one is bounded on the north by the Bristol Channel, in which case one may lawfully